Chapter Text
Ilya insists on grabbing his own bag.
He always does.
It’s muscle memory at this point—reach, lift, endure. Don’t ask for help. Don’t hesitate long enough for someone to offer it. Independence, for Ilya, was never about pride. It was about safety.
He reaches into the trunk and pulls.
Pain blooms instantly along his ribs, sharp and unforgiving, stealing the air from his lungs. For a split second, the world tilts. His fingers twitch, instinctively curling toward his side before he forces them to stay still.
Don’t react.
“Ilya.”
Shane’s voice cuts through the moment.
“I’ve got it,” Ilya says quickly, already turning away from the car like momentum might carry him through the pain. He adjusts the strap on his shoulder, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Shane doesn’t move. He watches.
“You’re hurt,” Shane says quietly.
“I’m fine.”
Fine is a reflex. Fine is what he learned to say at eight years old when he skinned his knee and was told not to bleed on the floor. Fine is what he said at twelve when his ribs ached from being knocked into the boards too hard and no one asked if he was okay. Fine is what kept him from being noticed in the wrong way.
Shane steps closer. “You winced.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” Shane says gently. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Ilya’s grip tightens on the bag. The words scrape against something old and raw.
Pretending kept him safe.
In his house, pain was an inconvenience. Complaints were met with anger or ridicule. If you were hurt, it was because you were careless. If you needed help, it was because you were weak.
So he learned to carry everything himself.
“I don’t want to make a thing out of it,” Ilya mutters.
Shane reaches for the bag—not forceful, not impatient. Just there. “Then don’t. Let me carry it.”
For a long moment, Ilya considers refusing out of sheer instinct. Then another sharp breath catches, pain flaring again, and the fight drains out of him.
“Fine,” he snaps, letting go.
The relief is immediate and humiliating. His shoulders sag the second the weight is gone, posture collapsing now that he’s no longer forcing himself upright.
Shane takes the second bag without comment.
They walk toward the cottage slowly. Shane adjusts his pace without saying a word, matching Ilya’s careful steps. The quiet between them isn’t tense—it’s attentive. Shane is watching him in that way that makes Ilya feel both exposed and strangely held.
Inside, the door barely clicks shut before Ilya’s knees buckle.
Shane catches him immediately, hands firm and steady. “Hey.”
“I’m okay,” Ilya insists automatically, even as he leans into Shane’s support.
Shane guides him to the couch anyway. Ilya lowers himself carefully, but the movement sends another flare of pain through his ribs. He hisses, eyes squeezing shut.
Shane kneels in front of him. “How long have you been minimizing this?”
Ilya exhales sharply. “Since it started.”
Shane nods once. “Yeah. That makes sense.”
Ilya scoffs weakly. “In my family, if you were hurt, you dealt with it. You didn’t get sympathy. You got told to stop making noise.”
The words pull something loose, and suddenly he’s not in the cottage anymore.
He’s seven years old again, sitting on a narrow bed with a cracked slat, pressing a towel against his side because it hurts to breathe. His father’s voice carries from the other room—sharp, annoyed. You’ll live. Don’t be dramatic.
No one comes to check on him.
Shane reaches up slowly, cupping Ilya’s face, grounding him back in the present. “That shouldn’t have happened to you.”
Ilya swallows. “It was normal.”
“Normal doesn’t mean right,” Shane says softly.
He helps Ilya lean back, arranging pillows carefully around his ribs, moving with quiet precision. He brings ice, medication, a blanket, each action deliberate and gentle.
“You don’t have to hover,” Ilya murmurs, though the edge is gone now.
“I know,” Shane says. “I want to.”
That word settles deep in Ilya’s chest.
Choosing.
Shane sits beside him, close but careful. Ilya shifts toward him instinctively, then freezes as pain spikes. His breath stutters.
Shane stills immediately. “Sorry.”
Ilya reaches out and grabs his wrist. “Don’t move. Just—stay.”
Shane stays.
They sit like that for a long time. Eventually, Ilya rests his head against Shane’s shoulder. Shane wraps an arm around him, careful not to press on his ribs, holding him like something fragile and precious.
“I don’t know how to let people take care of me,” Ilya admits quietly. “Every time someone does, I feel like I owe them. Like it’ll be used against me later.”
Another flash—being praised only when he performed well, affection tied to achievement, love feeling conditional and sharp-edged.
Shane presses a kiss into his hair. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Ilya tilts his head slightly, looking up at him. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“It’s not,” Shane admits. “But it’s real.”
Ilya leans in and kisses him.
It’s slow and tentative, like he’s testing whether tenderness will cost him something later. Shane meets it gently, deepening the kiss only when Ilya sighs and melts closer.
They kiss again. And again. Soft, lingering, unhurried. Shane’s thumb brushes along Ilya’s jaw, a touch so careful it almost hurts.
Eventually, they settle more fully together, Shane easing them into a position where Ilya can rest against his chest without pain. Shane’s arms wrap around him, warm and steady, one hand tracing slow, soothing patterns along Ilya’s arm.
Ilya’s breathing evens out gradually.
For the first time, he doesn’t feel like he’s waiting for the moment it will be taken away.
Family, he’s learned, isn’t about blood.
It’s about who stays.
And Shane stays.